


Ghosts Ain't Dead

by ZekeStrife



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Dadster, Gaster Fucks Up and Papyrus Suffers, Gen, Papyrus Needs A Hug, Papyrus-centric, Pre-Canon, Sad Papyrus, Violence, Worried Sans, Worried Undyne, that's literally the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 01:03:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6731491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZekeStrife/pseuds/ZekeStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaster longs to escape the Void. Another's moment of quiet reflection, offers him a way out: Papyrus</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is dark.

It is always, dark.

Everything is black— not the colour, but the void thereafter; the suffocating nothingness, the tainted fabric of reality.

There is nothing to see— nothing to observe.

His hands shifts between the layers of reality, timelines, and fabrics— he dips in and out, watching, observing.

Seeking.

He has been here for— he cannot remember. Forever, perhaps. But it has been too long, and the need to find a way to escape has come back around.

So he searches. He looks. He combs over every timeline, again and again and again and again, until—

 

 

"SANS!"

Papyrus pushes the door open, steps out of the cold, and stamps his feet off snow— the basement is dark and chilly, and there's no answer to his shout.

Groaning, Papyrus trudges down the stairs, clicking on the light as he passes the switch.

"SANS! YOU IN HERE?"

It's not the first time Sans' fallen asleep down in his workshop, bent over blueprints and snoring away.

Surprisingly enough, there's no Sans this time— just the covered machine, and a mess of papers and blueprints.

Papyrus sighs, hands on his hips.

"UGH! WHERE _ARE_ YOU," he mutters aloud, looking around the room— it's not like Sans hasn't forgotten stuff down here _before_ , so he might as well check.

But there's no mislaid socks or half-eaten burgers— just the pile of messy papers and blueprints, and _really_.

With a huff, Papyrus steps up to the table, and starts picking up the papers to sort through them— skimming across the text, to make sure he'll at least leave it in _some_ kind of Sansy-order.

While shifting through what could either be a pile of sciencetisty-mumbling or tab-juggling, a photo slips out, spinning down to the table.

Papyrus sighs, a huff of general annoyance at his brother's messiness, and dumps the papers on the table; picks up the photo.

It's an old, worn photo of a tall skeleton, smiling, and proudly holding two bundles.

It's a photo Papyrus has seen many times before, and his shoulders fall, annoyance disappearing.

A wistful expression settles on his face, and he gently touches the face of the skeleton— traces the crack running from the eye up to the crown of the skull.

It's been a while, since he's seen a picture of Dad.

It's not that they don't have them— it's just that having them out in the open isn't the best idea. So they're all stowed away down here, hidden in a photo album they rarely pull out— or at least, _Papyrus_ rarely pulls it out.

"Hey Dad," Papyrus says, without really meaning to.

It still hurts, looking at him— looking at him, and knowing that no matter what, Papyrus won't ever see him again.

That he's gone.

That nobody, beside him and Sans, _remembers_ Gaster.

"I miss you," he murmurs, fingers still pressed to Gaster's face. "We both do."

He sighs. Drags his eyes away from his father, and looks over the mess that is Sans' work-table.

The blueprints, the papers— he doesn't turn to look at the machine, but it's presence is palpable.

It's never going to work; Papyrus knows that.

"I wish you were here," he says.

         

                                                        

—he finds it.

He sees it.

**_My boy_ **

He brushes the other layers away, like they're nothing but loose paper; pulls the reality closer, mouth dragging slowly into a wide smile.

**_My son_ **

He gently dips his hands in; presses them into the fabric, and like a yolk breaking, colours bleed into the dark.

**_I can fulfil that wish_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here i go again, trying my hand at a multi-chaptered fic. like a dingus.  
> later chapters will ~~probably~~ be longer. currently, it's planned to be six chapters, but who knows— it might change!  
>  also, this fic isn't going to be particularly long, and some things _are_ going to be left unresolved. so, uh. there's that.
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! it you liked it, maybe leave a kudos, or a comment? it would be super appreciated. ♥


	2. Chapter 2

Papyrus finds himself standing in darkness.

It isn't that he wakes— there's no fuzziness tugging at back of his mind; it's just him, here.

Like a dream, except it feels _real_.

He breathes in, blinks— turns his head right, left. There's nothing but blackness for as far as he can see, and when he cranes his head up, it's the same there. Seemingly endless darkness.

He looks down, and there's colour.

White, the exact same shade as snow; bright yellow, and a red the same colour as his scarf.

His feet are bare, and when he wiggles his toes, it's like he's standing in tar.

The smear of colours stretches onwards, a thousand of hues mixed together— there's the colour of Undyne's scales, the green of their couch.

Papyrus frowns. Steps forward, except his feet catches at the colour. Like he's caught on gum.

He looks down, jerks his right leg up— the colour follows him, _just_ like gum, and he's startled into a laugh, except—

No sound.

The sudden smile drips off his face, and he puts his leg back down, twisting his head around— he's suddenly wary, like there's something creeping up his spine.

Wherever he is, he doesn't like it.

**_p..y..._ **

His head snaps up.

Just a second ago, no sound had penetrated the darkness— but now, a whisper.

Fractured, and far away, muffled and—

Familiar.

It feels _familiar_.

Papyrus' frowns deepens, and he lifts his foot up again— the colour is still sticking, and trying to rip his foot free turns out to be impossible.

With a huff, still silently, he gives up on that, dropping his foot again— pushes off on his toes, standing on tiptoes and craning his head around, looking for— something.

Anything.

**_..p...._ **

Again— Papyrus twists around, ignores the pang of discomfort it causes. Behind him, there's nothing except a sliver of silver, hanging in the middle of the air.

The stretch of colour stops there.

**_PA....._ **

Gasped against his spine, heavy and _right there_ — Papyrus snaps back around, stares straight into two, white eyes.

A cut of a grin, wide and white.

Hands centimeters away from his face, holes in the palms— fingertips inches from his sockets.

**_pa...us!_ **

It moves closer, and Papyrus tries to stumble back; but the colour holds him in place, and he falls— elbows grinding into something hard and unyielding.

The smile follows him down, hands coming closer and closer, and no matter how hard he tries to move, he's _stuck_.

**_l.. .. .n_ **

The whisper shivers across him, the smile never moving an inch— the fingertips are so close now, a mere hair-breath away from his forehead.

Papyrus opens his mouth, and the finger taps gently against bone.

Everything cramps up— something settles around his soul, tight and crushing, and he's choking on nothing.

He's being strangled, he's being _crushed_.

There's pressure, bearing down at him— fractures of pain, lacing all the way through him, like cracks in ice.

The voice is close, right _there_ , but it's like there's a barrier between them.

**_le. .. ..!_ **

Fingers curling, vision going blank— the smile remains above him.

Something cracks.

 

 

His ceiling hangs above him.

A well-known sight, and Papyrus blinks up at it, slowly and confused.

A dream.

An odd, odd dream, that didn't feel like one, not even now that he's awake again— it still feels real, and it's like it happened mere seconds ago.

He exhales slowly.

Ribs falling, then rising again— his hands rests comfortable on his false ribs, and he curls his fingers into the material of his shirt.

Gently, he shifts one shoulder.

It moves with no problem, and a part of Papyrus, that he wasn't even aware of, goes lax with relief.

He's not stuck. Not trapped, with that—

Papyrus frowns.

The smile— the voice.

Frown deepening, Papyrus clicks his teeth.

The voice had been familiar— like he had heard it a thousand times before, like he _knew_ the person using it.

It hadn't just been familiar, but almost... revered.

He doesn't like this train of thought— his soul stings, and he grinds his teeth together, closing his eyes.

He's being silly. Stupid.

It's just because he had seen that picture yesterday, nothing else— it had somehow slipped into his dream, and no matter how real it felt, it _wasn't_.

Dad—

Breath catching, Papyrus forces himself upright— winces when _pain_ laces through him, abrupt and very much real.

"WHA—?"

He gently moves again, winces once more when pain sparks up— it's along his left side, around his shoulder—

He can't help but wince again, as he carefully pulls his shirt away, craning his head to look down at the upper parts of his humerus.

A long, thin crack runs across the surface of the bone. It's not particularly deep, but it still twinges with pain.

Papyrus frowns at it, tilting his head to the side.

"When did _that_ happen?" he asks himself, voice puzzled— as far as he can remember, it hadn't been there when he went to bed.

He clicks his teeth. He hadn't done anything yesterday that would result in a crack— he'd cleaned, made spaghetti and watched TV with Sans. Nothing that could have given him that.

Oh well.

He shift his arm again, and while the crack twinges, now that he's prepared for it, it isn't too bad— easily ignorable.

He'd just have to remember not to do anything too strenuous, like spar with Undyne... Or pose too much. Or fiddle with some of his more complex puzzles. Or pick up Sans...

Papyrus huffs, throws that line of thought away— he'd figure it out! For now, he had to get up.

Pushing away his blanket, Papyrus crawls out of bed; his carpet is nice and plush beneath his toes, and he curls them into it, smiling at the feeling.

It's a nice morning, and nothing's going to stop him from enjoying it!

He nods resolutely, crosses his room in two quick strides, and opens his closet door.

A neat row of clothes meets him, all kind of colours and all kind of cuts— there's a sundress he almost considers, but then decides against; Sans would notice the crack if he wore that, and Papyrus didn't want Sans to worry! Especially since it's probably nothing!

Something with longer sleeves, then— there's a few hoodies that he _could_ wear over the sundress, or maybe the long-sleeved shirt with _BEAUTY BOY_ written on it?

Papyrus hums and haws over his clothes, going back and forth; maybe that black shirt that's got bones on it?

Or maybe that one with a cute little flower...

Clicking his teeth in thought, Papyrus gaze flits around, absently going over his closet as he thinks; the wooden frame, the smiley sticker, the mirror—

A half-strangled scream bursts out of him, and he startles backwards, stumbling as he tries to skitter away— his heel thumps into the carpet, and suddenly he's going down.

He hits the carpet with an _oomph_ , elbows and tailbone painfully slamming into the ground.

The crack on his humerus twinges loudly, and Papyrus hisses in pain, pushing himself up with his stinging elbows.

"Ow, ow, ow," he mumbles, curling into himself, one hand coming up to press against the crack.

It continues to sting painfully, and touching it _hurts_ — he withdraws his hand, inhales slowly, exhales.

The pain fades as he repeats the motions, breathing in and out calmly— as soon as it doesn't hurt so badly, he looks back up at his closet.

From where he's sitting, the mirror is blank.

He gets up to his feet, wincing as the crack ( _and_ his tailbone) twinges.

He walks closer, watching the mirror as raptly as he can— the moment his own reflection appears, he stills.

It's him.

Just him.

The tension bleeds out, and Papyrus nearly slumps to the ground— the dread around his soul lifts, and suddenly, he's feeling silly.

Really, what had he been thinking?

It was just a dream. It wasn't real, no matter how much it _felt_ like it. And beside— no way that thing could have gotten inside his mirror!

Forcing a chuckle, Papyrus steps back to his clothes— pulls out a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of comfortable sweatpants.

It's not that he hurries out of his room— it's just, there's no reason for him to take forever with his clothes!

He has other, more _interesting_ things to do!

It's got nothing to do with that smile, that voice...

**_P a p Y R u S_ **

 

After he's taken a quick shower, washed the worst of the grime off his bones, and changed into his clothes, he stands in the living room, not quite sure what he's going to do.

It's still pretty early, and Sans isn't going to wake up for... well, a while.

He could go for a run, but then he'd have to take a bath again; he could chill on the couch, but no, it's too early for that!

Maybe he should just make spaghetti. Get an early start on his breakfast.

He finds the pot, pulls out the packet of pasta. Water in the pot, pasta in the water.

With that bubbling away, he rummages around for the ingredients to a nice, tasty, sauce— tomatoes, meat, and some onion.

Another pot, this one not as big, and he's mashing it all together, pouring in milk to add liquid.

It feels like barely a few seconds' passed, but it's probably been minutes— he wonders how annoyed Sans would be, if he woke him up.

Probably not much— but still, waking him up right now seems _almost_ cruel. For some reason, his brother needs _a lot_ of sleep!

Humming absently to himself, Papyrus continues his stirring— the pots are both silver, and his reflection blurs back at him.

A wide smile flashes back at him.

Papyrus jerks, spoon slipping out of his hand, and falling to the ground— splattering sauce everywhere.

His reflection stares back at him with wide, shocked sockets.

 _Okay_ , he thinks.

"OKAY," he repeats, out loud. "THIS IS GETTING VERY WEIRD."

He curls his fingers against his palm, doesn't look away from the muddled reflection.

But nothing happens.

It's just him.

This time, the tension doesn't leave— there's still a weird catch in his breath, and his soul beats with dread.

Maybe—

He shakes his head. No, he's just being... silly. It's probably, _definitely_ , nothing.

He just— needs some air.

Yeah.

Air. That'll help!

He bends down, picks up the spoon— makes sure not to look at his reflection, when he throws it in the sink.

He'll just clean up here, then go outside; maybe he'd get some of Sans' greasy food, just to be nice...

Papyrus makes short work of cleaning up; he barely remembers to turn down the heat, and to find a new spoon to stir with.

But soon enough, he's ready to venture outside— both pots are on low-heat, and they _should_ be fine while he's out.

With a last look at his spaghetti, Papyrus turns around, crosses the room, and walks outside.

Snowdin is almost empty; most of the inhabitants are inside, fast asleep— but much like Papyrus, Grillby tends to rise early.

Papyrus sets out in the snow, boots crunching happily; Sans' mailbox is, as always, filled to the brim with crap.

It takes only a few minutes to walk to Grillby's, and Papyrus doesn't bother hurrying— the cold air is nice, and the sound of his boots crunching through the snow is nice; by the time he actually gets to Grillby's, he's smiling broadly.

"GOOD MORNING!" he yells as he opens the doors, and unsurprisingly, nobody answers— it's mostly empty inside, except for Grillby himself, and Greater Dog, who seems to be half-asleep in one of the booths.

Grillby raises a hand in greeting; for once, he's not polishing a glass. Instead there's a book open on the counter before him.

Papyrus crosses the room quickly, ignoring the _ugh grease_ feeling that always comes from visiting Grillby's.

"HELLO GRILLBY!" he stops by the counter, smiles happily. "WOULD YOU MIND WHIPPING UP SANS' USUAL?"

Grillby raises his eyebrows at him, flames crackling.

Papyrus huffs, crosses his arms. "CAN'T I DO SOMETHING NICE FOR MY BROTHER?"

Grillby's flames snaps with humour, and he inclines his head in amused assent.

Papyrus, in lieu of sticking out a tongue, makes a mocking _nyeh!_ sound.

Grillby actually chuckles, a low sound that's a lot like the quiet crackling of flames— Papyrus grins widely in respond.

With an amused shake of his head, Grillby steps back, and exits the room to get Sans' usual.

Left alone, Papyrus rocks back on his heels, then tips forward— he looks around the bar, over at the numerous bottles that's covering up most of the wall.

The low light shines off the glass, and he can almost see himself there; standing quietly, a smi—

He looks away, quickly and forcefully, breath catching at his ribs. His soul picks up speed, and quite suddenly, he wants to _run_.

He forces it down. Ignores the dread, and the way he's itching to just _leave_ , get away— he forces the smile back on his face, just in time too.

Grillby steps back out, a brown paper bag in hand— there's already grease in the bottom corner.

"THANKS!" he chirps, hopes Grillby doesn't notice the break in his voice, and fishes out the necessary gold— but Grillby shakes his head, flames crackling with... hesitance? Concern?

Papyrus frowns, hand half-way out of his pocket.

"GRILLBY—" to his surprise, Grillby actually cuts him off.

"... on the house."

"OH," Papyrus lets the gold coins go. "IF... YOU'RE SURE??"

Grillby nods, placing down the paper bag and pushing it towards him.

Papyrus looks at the bag, then at Grillby— he's frowning, indecisive if he should accept or not.

Grillby's flames crackle impatiently, however, and he snatches the bag up, just so he doesn't change his mind again.

"Thanks," he says, giving Grillby a much softer version of his usual smile.

Grillby inclines his head in what Papyrus is pretty sure is a _no problem_ , mixed with a _you're welcome_.

He turns around, walks to the door— he's barely taken two steps, when Grillby is speaking up again.

"... take care."

Papyrus twists around, looks at him— but Grillby isn't looking back, instead looking down at his book, and presumably reading.

Papyrus hesitates, but only for a second; then he shakes the moment away, throws an "GOODBYE!" over his shoulder, and walks outside.

The walk back to his house is a much quicker affair this time, mostly because Papyrus doesn't want Sans' meal to get cold— and also because the grease is spreading, and _uugh_.

The pots are still merrily bubbling away, and from the smell of things, neither of them are burnt.

Placing the paper bag on the counter, Papyrus does a quick round of stirring, before he heads for the stairs.

Sans room is, as it always is, a complete mess. Papyrus doesn't step inside, mostly because he doesn't really _want_ to; he just pokes his head in.

Sans is asleep on his mattress, covers bundled up in a ball, and held to his chest like some kind of teddy bear. He's snoring.

Papyrus grins.

" **SANS**!"

The reaction is pretty much instant; Sans jerks upright, the ball of covers going flying, slamming into the opposite wall.

"wha— papyrus?!" he say, voice raised. The ball of covers slides down the wall, and hits the floor.

Papyrus snickers.

"GOOD MORNING, BROTHER!" he says. "IT IS TIME TO GET UP!!"

Sans blinks. Slowly and tiredly, and his head turns towards Papyrus.

Papyrus grins at him, and slides out of the room.

Not bothering to wait for his brother to get his head on, Papyrus goes back downstairs, finding a clean plate and a fork— by now, his spaghetti is ready.

By the time Sans finally comes down, Papyrus has settled on the couch, his plate of spaghetti in his lap, and another plate sitting on the cushion beside him, the paper bag on top of it.

"morning," Sans mumbles, still clad in his sleeping clothes. Papyrus decides not to comment.

"GOOD MORNING," he chirps, swirling strands of spaghetti around his fork. "YOUR FOOD IS IN THE BAG."

Sans mumbles something, and drags himself to the couch, picking the plate (and bag) up, before pretty much throwing himself down.

He almost bounces.

Curling up against the armrest, Sans plops the plate in his lap, crinkling the bag open.

"... you got me grillby's," Sans says, after a pause. He's smiling, _really_ smiling. "thanks paps."

Papyrus hums in answer, chewing on a mouthful of spaghetti.

Sans pulls out his food, a burger and some fries, and a bottle of ketchup nestled in beside them; and then there's nothing but eating, silence only filled with their chewing.

Papyrus finishes up first, putting his plate on the armrest, and sighing contently.

Right now, nothing else matters— not the dream, or the moments of seeing things, or the crack.

The only thing that matters is him and Sans, happy and alive.

"pap?"

Sans voice is soft, and it's thoughtful and almost... vulnerable.

Papyrus looks over at him, smiling. "YES?"

Sans, burger gone and ketchup bottle mostly empty, doesn't look away— he's pushing some fries around, but it's an absent thing, a way to keep his hands busy.

"... you miss him too, right?"

The smile doesn't fall from Papyrus' face. It dims, softens. He shifts closer, gently bumps his hand against Sans' tibia.

"Yeah."

Sans sighs, looks down. He pinches a fry between his fingers.

Papyrus' smile drops, then— he wishes he could do something, anything, to help. To make it better.

But Sans' always taken Gaster death hard. Has always missed him _so much_ more than Papyrus does.

It's not because Papyrus doesn't miss him— he does, painfully so, but Sans and Gaster... they were closer.

Papyrus knows that Gaster loved him. But he also knows that Sans was Gaster's favourite.

That he loved Sans so much more.

 

 

Frustration is all he feels.

It fills the darkness, fills him— frustration mostly aimed at himself, to be truthful.

He hadn't meant to _hurt_ Papyrus. Hadn't meant to scare him.

He just— he wants to escape. He wants to truly exist, he wants to see his sons. Sans. Papyrus.

Even now, with a link to reality, a way to be, in some capacity, _real_ , it is not enough. He cannot touch them, cannot hold them, cannot tell them that he loves them.

He is but a shadow in their world. A mere mockery of what he was.

All he can do is watch them. Observe.

Try to reach out to Papyrus, to make him _hear_.

And it has to be soon. Before the link dulls, and fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up _a lot_ longer than i expected.  
>  honestly, i don't have much to say (because i'm very tired, probably) so uh.  
> hope you enjoyed this chapter?? and that it's interesting!  
> oh, also! i fiddled some with the summary, because the first one was written in a hurry. hopefully it's better now!  
> (somehow, Grillby has wormed himself into the story.)
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! as always, kudos and comments are SUPER DUPER appreciated! even if they're just keyboard smashing. ;') ♥


	3. Chapter 3

It's first the next day, that Sans finds his way back to Grillby's.

He and Papyrus had ended up spending the whole day on the couch, sometime talking, but mostly just sitting together, and watching awful television.

It had been nice, but Sans wasn't going to say he hadn't missed Grillby's.

"hey grill," he says, as he slides onto his usual seat, resting his elbows on the counter. "how's my tab doing?"

Grillby's is almost empty today; Lesser and Greater are sitting in the farthest booth, probably talking about important dog stuff.

Grillby's wiping down the counter, and at Sans' question, he raises his head to throws him a quick, vaguely puzzled, glance.

Sans leans his head against one palm, dropping his left arm down to rest it on the counter. "didn't pap put it on my tab yesterday?"

Grillby's flames spark in what's more or less a huff. He shakes his head, and Sans' pretty sure he just rolled his eyes.

"man, did he have to pay for it? he _knows_ you don't mind the tab..."

Grillby snorts. Wipes the counter down once more, before crouching down and rummaging around under the bar.

Sans grins, closing his eyes. "yeah, complain all you want. i know you don't."

There's a gentle sound of something being sat on the counter, and Sans peels his eyes back open to see a bottle of ketchup before him.

Before he can thank Grillby, the flame monster speaks up.

"... didn't pay for it."

Sans tilts his head, and looks bewildered at Grillby. "but.. it's not on the tab?"

Grillby nods. Fishes out a glass from beneath the counter, and picks the rag back up.

Sans wraps his fingers around the bottle of ketchup, pulls it closer till he's nearly cradling it to his chest.

"grill."

Grillby's flames pop with a sigh, and though he starts polishing the glass in his hands, he _does_ elaborate.

"... on the house."

If Sans had eyebrows, they would have climbed off his head.

"on the _house_?" he leans back in his seat, digs his heels in so he doesn't fall. "... gee grill, you don't have to be such a mother hearth."

Grillby throws him a glance that's more or less _frigid_.

Sans shrugs. "no?"

Grillby shakes his head. _no_.

Sans chuckles, leans back in. Pops the ketchup open. "well, worth a try."

Takes a swig of ketchup, and goes back to leaning his full weight on the counter, nearly sprawling out on it.

"you don't have to worry about me," he says, as soon as he's done savouring the sharp taste of ketchup.

Grillby looks at him, with a look that pretty much says _yeah, **right**_.

Sans laughs, rests his cheek against his right shoulder. "still—"

To his immense surprise, _Grillby_ cuts him off.

"... worried about both of you."

Sans' smile drops off. He looks up at Grillby, a sudden tang of worry in his mouth.

"pap?"

Grillby pauses in his polishing, then; looks at him, with an almost hesitant look.

Sans curls his fingers into the counter, ribs dragging upwards.

" _grill_."

His voice is sharper than he means it to be, but _Papyrus_. If anything's...

Grillby puts down the glass. Slowly, like he's afraid moving too fast will send Sans careening off.

His flames flicker and dance, and his gaze is burning— Sans doesn't look away.

He doesn't care that Grillby prefers not to talk too much. This is about _Papyrus_.

With a drop of his shoulders, Grillby looks away.

"... he was jumpy. wary. when i came back inside, he was..." he pauses, tilts his head. Eyes on the floor right before him. "... afraid."

Sans digs his fingers further into the wood, stares rigidly at Grillby. A thousand thoughts swirl through his mind.

Yesterday— Papyrus already on the couch, the fact that he'd actually _gone to Grillby's_. The silence, the way he'd hardly said _anything_ during their couch-time. The fact that he'd even done that.

Cursing, Sans slams one hand down on the counter, ignores the sting it causes. "fuck, i'm an _idiot_!"

Grillby looks back up at him.

"damn it, how'd i _miss that_? of course something was up, papyrus _hates_ doing nothing all day! what's _wrong with me_?"

He's sliding out of his seat, just so he can pace back and forth, hands wringing at each other.

"fuck, i'm an _awful brother_ , aren't i? always so fucking caught up with myself, and my own thoughts, and oh god, what if something's wrong? what if he's hurt, or, or, suffering or unhappy, what if it's _me_ —?"

A warm hand catches him by the arm, drags him back onto his seat. Sans realises he's breathing too fast, that his thoughts are spiralling out of control. Grillby places another warm hand on Sans' other arm.

"... calm down," he says, voice calm.

Sans' breath hiccups, shoulders rising, then falling sharply. His mind is still going, a loop of _what if i'm the problem_?

Grillby makes a sharp, annoyed sound, and suddenly there's _heat_.

Sans yelps.

Jumps away from the burning feeling, nearly falling off his chair— only staying on because he instinctively drives his heels in.

He looks up, sockets wide. "what—!"

Grillby steps back behind the counter, gaze placid. He picks the rag and glass back up.

With a huff, Sans scrubs one hand across his cheek— winces a bit, when it stings with remembered heat.

"thanks," he mumbles, eventually, and Grillby's flames spark with amused acknowledgement.

Sans smiles, more at himself than anything else. "i was getting kinda out of _sans_ , wasn't i?"

Grillby doesn't even bother _looking_ at him this time.

Sans laughs tiredly, leaning in over the counter and resting his cheek on his wrist. "that bad?"

Grillby goes back to polishing the glass, and Sans laughs louder, reaching out to curl his fingers around the bottle of ketchup.

"yeah. it was pretty bad."

 

 

In the morning, Gaster watches at Papyrus wakes up.

They're downstairs— Sans is splayed out across Papyrus' chest, fingers curled around his ribs; when Papyrus sits up, Sans barely reacts.

It is nice. To see his boys so comfortable together; to see the way Papyrus peels Sans off with care, and the fond way he smiles.

It is, however, also another smack to the face. A painful reminder, that right now, he will _never_ be able to do that. He'll never be able to pull a blanket over his boys, will never be able to fall asleep with them on the couch.

Papyrus' head snaps up, eyes finding his. The look on his face is horrible, and Gaster slips back into the Void, colours fading.

He sighs at himself. He knows that he'll have to get over that instinctive jerk of emotion, he gets when Papyrus looks at him like that; terrified and shaken.

He knows that Papyrus will understand. He knows that when he gets back, when he can hold his boys in his arms, Papyrus will _understand_.

So he has to get over it. Has to bite down the urge to slip away; he has to _stay_ , so Papyrus will hear him.

He slips back into the colours, determined to do this.

Papyrus is walking through Waterfall, eyes on his own feet— Gaster slips across the path, a brief flicker of _something_ ; Papyrus jumps, and his eyes snaps up, just as he had hoped.

He strains against the edges of the Void, and even though he shouts it, the **_papyrus_** comes out a mangled hiss of noise.

Papyrus' face freezes, and his shoulders jerk backwards; for a second, it almost looks like he is going to step back.

Then he doesn't— instead, his eyes narrows, face tightening into something determined and hard.

Gaster feels pride bubbling inside himself, and even though Papyrus cannot see it, he smiles proudly.

**_Papyrus!_ **

Papyrus steps closer, step after step, until he's right against the wall; until Gaster can see the scratches against his son's bone, can see the way his teeth press together.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT."

Papyrus' voice comes out flat, and Gaster wishes he could touch him; could tell him that he is so sorry, that this is _necessary_.

But he cannot.

**_Papyrus_** , he repeats, and it is just as mangled as before.

Papyrus' eyes flicker, and his shoulders jerk up to his cheekbones. There's a tense, shaky look on his face now.

"WHAT DO YOU _WANT_?"

**_Home_** , Gaster says. **_I want to come home_**.

Papyrus shakes his head. Quick and abrupt, and he is suddenly stepping back.

"Who are you?" he asks, in a voice like a child.

Lost. Unsure.

Gaster raises his hands, reaches for his son— Papyrus flinches away.

**_Home_** , Gaster repeats, stresses. His own voice wavers. If he had eyes, they would sting.

**_To you._ **

Papyrus curls his fingers into his humerus, teeth clicking together. Gaster wishes, _wants_ , to hold him.

"He's dead."

Papyrus looks away. Scratches his fingers across bone, and Gaster may not have ribs, but still, it feels like they catch at the anguish.

"You're not him."

**_Papyrus_** —

Papyrus turns away. Turns on his heel and strides back down the path; he is nearly running.

Gaster watches him go, and doesn't slip back into the dark.

 

 

It takes Papyrus three minutes to get to Undyne's house.

Usually, it'd take longer— there's times when Papyrus gets an early start, just so he can spend minutes drifting through Waterfall, listening to Echo Flowers and admiring the way the water sparkles and ripples, the diamonds glittering in the ceiling.

Today he does nothing like that.

The first minute is spent lost in his own thoughts, remembering that smile— that shadow— that's been haunting him since yesterday.

Trying to convince himself that he's wrong, that his instincts aren't right— that it isn't Dad.

And then he's broken out of those thoughts, by that _damned_ shadow.

Hurrying down the path, he shoves the encounter away; battles with that _stupid_ thought, that it's Dad, it's him— because that _can't be_.

Dad's gone. And as nice as it would be, he's not coming back.

So he hurries to Undyne's, because at least there he'll be able to forget this whole thing. He'll be able to pretend there's no crack on his humerus, that there wasn't any odd dream. That he isn't seeing ghosts everywhere.

So. Two minutes, spent hurrying and forcing his own mind blank.

Undyne's waiting outside for him, leaning against the front-door, and idly tapping away at her phone, a dopy smile on her face.

Alphys, probably.

Papyrus makes sure to crunch his boot loudly as he walks closer; the last time he'd snuck up on her, she'd thrown him into a wall.

Not something he want to repeat again. Especially not with an already cracked humerus.

Her eyes flickers up to him, and the dopy smile snaps into a wider one, that's really just teeth.

"Papyrus! I was starting to think you'd be late!"

He _nyehehe_ 's, slows down his pace so he's not hurrying anymore.

"I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WOULD _NEVER_ BE LATE FOR SUCH AN IMPORTANT MEETING!"

She laughs, stows her phone away in her pants-pocket. "Good! Being late is only an option when it's for an heroic entrance!"

She pushes off the wall, walks forward to meet him— the moment they're within arm-reach, she lightly punches his right shoulder.

"You ready for a—" her voice stops. Her smile slides off, and suddenly she's leaning right into his face, eyes narrowed.

Papyrus blinks, but forces himself not to lean away.

"You okay, Pap?"

Her voice is filled with genuine concern, and there's a frown on her face— she looks ready to _talk_ , which isn't really her strongest point.

Undyne's never been the best at... comforting people. Or talking about feelings.

She'd much rather stab those feelings.

Papyrus sighs. He doesn't bother trying to lie about it, just says: "I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT."

She doesn't stop frowning at him, but she _does_ lean back, crossing her arms over her chest. "You sure? I don't mind—" she grimaces. " _talking_."

He laughs. "IT IS FINE, UNDYNE! I WOULD MUCH RATHER NOT THINK ABOUT IT."

And he really wouldn't— so far, thinking about it had just made everything worse, made him feel awful, and _sad_. An emotion he'd prefer _not_ to feel.

Her frowns lightens a bit; not quite turning into a smile, but something that's pretty close. "Well, guess you're up for a little sparring then?"

He grins. "OF COURSE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS _ALWAYS_ UP FOR A SPAR!"

She does grin, then, and uncrosses her arms, holding out one hand, palm up, to summon forth a long, blue spear.

"So, you ready for a _beat down_?"

Her grin is all teeth, and he matches it, stepping back to make a bit of room between them.

"ARE _YOU_?"

He makes his voice as cheeky as possible, and when she laughs, it's all mock outrage.

"Oh, you little **_punk_**!"

She moves forward, quick as you'd please— her spear leaves a blur of blue in its wake, and he slams it aside with a hastily made bone.

She doesn't pause; adjust to the thrown aside weight, and slams one foot into his ribs, kicking him backwards. He stumbles, and doesn't bother righting himself just yet.

Instead he snaps his hand upwards, sending a row of bones erupting out of the ground beneath her feet— she curses, and though she manages to side-step the worst of it, two of the bones catches the side of her foot, sending her stumbling.

Papyrus rights himself while she's stumbling to the side, summoning forth a more sturdy-made bone.

And then she's standing straight again, glowering over at him.

_Rude_ , her eyes says.

Papyrus grins cheekily. "C'MON UNDYNE! I THOUGHT YOU WERE THE HEAD OF THE _ROYAL GUARD_?"

Her eyes narrows to slit, and Papyrus _nyehehe's_ loudly; he's not taken by surprise when she sends three spears his way.

He dodges the first two, sends the third flying to the side— he scrambles back to avoid a spear to the face, and side-steps a stab from Undyne.

"Stand still!" she barks, swinging her spear in from the right— he blocks it with a bone.

"NO!" he laughs, and then she's kicking his feet out from under him.

He manages to land on one knee, instead of going skull-first into the ground; he has no time to regroup.

He throws himself forward, rolling away from a spear— he scrambles to his feet as quick as he can, and barely manages to block Undyne's next attack.

It becomes a fury of attacks— Undyne swings, and Papyrus meets her, blocking and parrying as best as he can.

The grin on her face is wide, and Papyrus is sure he's wearing a matching one.

Eventually, they break away from each other— Papyrus quick-jumping back, and Undyne follows to circles him, spear trailing across the dirt as she walks.

There's a few spears buried around in the ground, already starting to flake away— Papyrus side-steps a hurtled spear, and while she's summoning forth three more to throw, he summon forth a blockade of bones.

The two attack clashes with a loud, cracking sound— spears snapping the bone, but also bursting against them. Neither of the two attack survives each other.

Undyne dodges a bone, then another— they bury themselves into the ground behind her, and then _she's_ the one on the defensive.

A right swing, a left kick— she twists away from a hail of needle-thin bones, and blocks an overhead swing.

Papyrus' skull slams into hers, and she's stumbling backwards, cursing loudly.

Her vision's gone, but _no way_ is she going to let Papyrus pin her _now_! She snaps forth a row of spears, laughs when he lets out a surprised squeak.

"UNDYNE!" he whines at her, and she blinks the rests of the dots away, laughing harder when she sees the look on his face— like a little _kid_.

"You're not the _only one_ who can do that trick!" she shouts as she jumps forward, over her row of spears and right into his face—

He flails away, and she lands crouched, another spear already in her hand.

She snaps it upwards, and this time, _he's_ the one cursing— it nicks across his chin, leaves a line in its wake.

He kicks out, manages to send her spear sailing upwards— she jumps forward, catches him by the ribs and sends them both into the dirt.

Her breath leaves her in an _oomph_ , and Papyrus is in a no better state— she rears back, ignores the sting to her ribs, and while she's swinging her hand back for momentum, she summons another spear into it.

Just as she's about to land the finishing blow, his hands finds her ribs and _pushes_.

She tips, hits the ground shoulder-first— the spear flies out of her grip and tumbles across the dirt.

She turns onto her hands, flips up to her feet— she ducks under a bone, and turns with a spin, nearly catching Papyrus' foot with hers.

But nope, he manages to step back just in time— his eyes meets her, and the wide grin on his face makes hers twitch even bigger.

Undyne is gearing up for another hail of spears, letting magic flicker at her fingertips— she doesn't break eye-contact, a bid at distracting Papyrus enough to score a good, solid hit.

It's the only reason she catches it.

His eyes slides away from hers, focuses on something _behind_ her— his whole face seizes, grin turning into a shocked grimace, sockets blowing wide.

And then a bone, sharpened to a point, is hurtling towards her _face_ , and she only just manages to avoid it; it catches a bit of her fin, and she's not smiling anymore.

"Papyrus! What the _fuck_!"

He startles. Shoulders jerking forwards, eyes snapping to her— his chest heaves, and the expression on his face makes her soul twist.

She steps forward, keeps a rapt eye on him. "Pap— what's wrong?"

Her voice is as soft as she knows how to make it; he doesn't startle again, just watches her wide-eyed.

She raises both hands, palm first. "Pap?"

He blinks. Breathes in shakily, and then exhales a much more steady breath— the expression fades, till it's just a lingering touch to his eyes.

"UNDYNE—"

She drops her hands, then; strides forward, and in two quick steps she's pulling him into a rough hug.

Then she pushes him back and kicks his feet out from under him.

He lands on the ground with a confused _oomph_ , and she points a spear in his face, glowering.

"What the hell was _that_ Papyrus? You nearly took out my other eye!"

He blinks, stares up at her— confused, then surprised, then horrified.

"I— YOU'RE OKAY, RIGHT?" he tries to push himself up, but _no way_ is she letting him; she pushes him down with a foot.

"I'm fine," she says, waves her free hand in the air; her fin stings a bit, sure, but it's just a _fin_. "But what the hell was that?"

He clicks his teeth— eyes drifting away from her, and she _knows_ what he's thinking.

"Oh no you _don't_!" she snarls, and taps his arm with the flat side of her spear. "You're not going to clam up! You're telling me. Now."

He looks back up at her. Hesitates.

She considers crossing her arms, but then she wouldn't be able to threaten him with a face full of _spear_.

He sighs, then. "I can't tell you," he says, softly.

She removes the spear. Stabs it into the ground, and flops down; sits cross-legged across from him.

"Can't, or won't?"

He smiles dimly at that; pushes himself up, till he's also sitting cross-legged.

Now that he's upright, _and_ free to move, he crosses his arms; digs his fingertips into his humerus. "Both? It—"

His face drops. His fingers curl tighter, and she almost kicks him for it. She doesn't, only because she knows that would probably just make him clam up again.

"It... involves something I can only talk to Sans about."

She leans her weight on her elbow, rests it on her right knee. "Talk to _him_ , then?"

"NO!" he shouts it out before he can think, breath in a throat he doesn't have; his voice echoes, and there's a quality to it he doesn't like.

Fear.

It's not—

It's not that he doesn't _want_ to talk to Sans about it. But it's—

He can't.

He _can't_ talk to Sans about this, because as much as he wishes it wasn't true, it's Dad.

It's Dad, and he _can't do that to Sans_.

"It would break him," he says, voice low and sad.

Undyne's frowning, hard and tight, and he looks away. He knows what she's going to say, but—

"Well, _fuck_ Sans!"

—he still winces at the sound, hunching his shoulders up.

"Undyne—"

She cuts him off with a sharp noise, leaning forward until she can poke him in the ribs; he looks up at her, because if he doesn't, she'll force him to.

"No, you listen to me. I don't care if telling Sans this, whatever it is, is going to hurt his feelings."

She forces eye-contact, face serious.

"Because from where I'm sitting, it's messing with _you_. Mentally, and if I'm not wrong, _physically_."

His eyes skitters away. "Undyne—"

She cuts him off with a snort. "I'm not _dumb_ Paps. I can see it in the way you move."

She gently taps a finger against the crack in his left humerus, and even though he's probably agitated it worse with their spar, he winces at the spark of pain the simple tap causes.

"You'd tell me if it was nothing," she says, flat out, and her voice isn't quite sad, but it's something like that.

He sighs. Looks down at his knuckles, clicks his teeth. Makes sure to press his palms to his sides, instead of the middle of his humerus.

She sighs too. "Talk to him about it. For me?"

He shrugs. "I— Maybe."

She doesn't press him further, and for that, he's thankful— he's not sure he can promise her that, that he can knowingly do something like that to Sans.

Because Sans has always, always, admired Gaster.

He had been Sans' role-model, his _hero_. Even now, Sans still thinks of Gaster like that.

And... Papyrus isn't sure he'd be able to take Sans not believing him.

It's not that he thinks Sans wouldn't believe he's being... haunted? Stalked? He knows Sans will believe _that_ — knows that Sans would never, ever, think he'd lie about something like that.

He just wouldn't believe Papyrus, when he says it's Dad.

 

 

The colours are starting to dull.

The shades are less vibrant, less _real_.

His time is running out, and Gaster isn't sure he's going to be able to make Papyrus _listen_.

So far, all he's gotten is rejection— a part of him still hurts, from the certain way Papyrus had told him he was _dead_. That he wasn't _him_!

And then, Papyrus had the _nerve_ to attack him! If he'd been real, the bone would have ripped right through him, probably _killed_ him.

... No. Making Papyrus listen isn't going to work.

As much as he wishes it wasn't so, he doesn't have forever. And there's no use wasting time on something that isn't working, when he has another option.

One that he knows is going to work.

It might not be painless, or easy— but it _will work_.

Decision made, Gaster slips back out of the Void. He knows this will hurt Papyrus, but he also knows that Papyrus will _understand_.

That when he can hold them both in his arms again, Papyrus will be grateful.

.... He has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was actually meant to be _more_ in this chapter, but i ended up shoving it to the next. especially cause i wanted to get this out!!  
>  i hope you guys like this! i was kinda afraid i'd get stuck on this chapter, but thankfully i didn't!  
> also, i'm curious: how does the fight scene read? i love writing fight scenes, but i'm not sure how good i am at it? was it okay to follow?  
> anyway: thanks for the comments, and the kudos, and i'm so glad you guys are enjoying this!!!


	4. Chapter 4

Papyrus wakes up slowly.

His mind feels numb and fuzzy, and there's a distant taste of cotton in his mouth.

Breathing hurts.

He blinks up at the ceiling slowly, vision adjusting; he tilts his head to the side, looks over his action figures and his pirate flag.

His fingers curl loosely into the gap between his ribs, and just doing that _hurts_.

"Why are you doing this?" he mumbles, eyes slipping over to the wall beside his bookshelf, where the shadow lingers. It smiles back at him.

It doesn't answer, beside a mangled mumble of **_home_**.

Papyrus looks away; rubs at his sockets, even though it makes his ulna and radius sting with pain.

He sits up carefully, slides out of bed slowly— he ignores the way the shadow slinks across the floor as he walks to the closet, ignores the way he can _feel_ it staring at his back as he picks out his clothes.

Soft cloth, long-sleeves. He tugs them on, fishes out a scarf and wraps it around his neck.

He considers, briefly, crawling inside his closet— maybe the shadow won't follow him into it. Maybe he'd be left _alone_.

He closes the closet door, wipes at his face again.

It's still early. Sans' door is closed, and Papyrus doesn't bother poking his head inside to check on him; just creeps down the stairs, and flips on the TV.

There's nothing on, except static, but Papyrus still curls up on the couch, wrapping his arms around his legs and hiding his face in the soft, comfortable fabric of his scarf.

He knows the shadow is standing behind him, watching the back of his skull with rapt attention. Its voice whispers against his mind, a mangled stream of **_papyrus home understand thankful_** ; by now, he's gotten so used to it always scratching at the edge of his mind, that he has no problem tuning it out.

He rests his chin on his knees, and watches the way the TV flickers, the colours blending and twisting together.

"pap?"

He blinks, lifts his head.

Sans is standing at the top of the staircase, looking down at him with a concerned expression.

... why's Sans up?

Papyrus blinks again, shifts back and releases his knees— pain flares up, bright and _sudden_.

A hiss slips out before he can stop it, and Sans expression shifts from concerned to downright _worried_.

"pap—"

Papyrus raises a hand, manages not to flinch at the shocks of pain that motion elicits.

"I'M FINE!" his voice comes out a croak, which he had not expected. He clears the throat he doesn't actually have, and repeats himself. "I'M FINE, SANS! MY ARMS JUST FEEL ASLEEP!"

Sans frowns, eyes intent and searching.

Papyrus changes the subject: "WHY'RE YOU UP SO EARLY?? SOMETHING WRONG?"

Sans frown doesn't lessen at that. In fact, it dips even deeper, and he takes the last steps in quick succession, moving at a speed Papyrus hasn't seen him use in forever.

"pap. it's the middle of the day."

"... OH."

Sans sighs, sits down beside him. "bro, be honest. what's wrong?"

It's not the first time Sans' asked him this question, in the last three days. Ever since he came home from Undyne's, Sans has asked him that question _at least_ once a day.

It's starting to grate a bit, especially since Papyrus can't (won't) tell him the truth.

He's never been particularly fond of lying.

"NOTHING," he says with a sigh. And, before Sans can call bullshit: "I JUST HAVEN'T BEEN NAPPING WELL."

Sans' frown lessens, then. It's still there, and he's still concerned, but it's not the first time Papyrus has had problems with napping.

"really? what's up?"

Papyrus groans in forced annoyance, hides his face in his hands. "UUGH, I DON'T KNOW!"

He jerks his head back up, huffs in mock frustration. "I JUST CAN'T SLEEP! IT'S DRIVING ME INSANE!!"

He turns to Sans, eye sockets narrowed. His brother isn't frowning anymore.

"PLUS, I CAN BARELY CONCENTRATE!! MY SPAGHETTI IS _SUFFERING_!"

Sans chuckles, then, and Papyrus crosses his arm, huffs again— even though on the inside, he's congratulating himself on a lie well spun.

"sounds like you're going _pasta_."

Papyrus groans softly, leans over so he can rests his head on Sans'. "UGH, YOU'RE MEAN SANS."

Sans laughs, reaches up a hand to pat the top of Papyrus' skull. "sorry, bro."

Papyrus _nyeh_ 's softly, and closes his eyes— it's kind of nice, sitting here with Sans... Sure, the shadow is still there, but the mumbling's stopped.

"... next time though, please tell me."

Papyrus opens his eyes again, tries to look down at Sans— all he sees, obviously, is his brother's skull.

"HM?"

Sans doesn't answer for a beat, and when he does, his voice is softer than usual: "i was worried, paps. i— i was starting to think something was _seriously_ wrong."

Papyrus looks away.

Over at the TV, where Mettaton is posing dramatically, and how did he miss that?

"... SORRY SANS."

Sans sighs. "it's okay bro. i just—"

He stops there, and really, he doesn't _have_ to explain. Papyrus knows what he means. Knows who he's thinking off.

Papyrus closes his eyes. Tries to ignore the distant, mangled hiss that's started up again.

**_home_ **

**_—h_ ** **_o_ ** **_̸̛̦̩̦̥̖̙͝_ ** **_m_ ** **_̡_ ** **_҉_ ** **_͉̘̹_ ** **_e_ ** **_̨͟_ ** **_͇_ ** **_͖̫̹_ **

**_i_** ** _̶̢_** ** _̳_** ** _͔̦͈_** **_͈̻͢ͅ_** ** _w_** ** _̝̗͚̹̦̼̱̖̯_** ** _a_** ** _̶̨̻͎̞_** ** _n_** ** _͙̺̼̦̖̻̰_** ** _t_** ** _̲̕͜_** ** _͎_** ** _t_** ** _̛_** ** _͇_** ** _̹_** ** _o_** ** _̮_** **_̸_** ** _҉_** ** _͍͚_** ** _͇_** ** _͎_** ** _g_** ** _͘͏̜̱̠̥̱͟_** ** _o_** ** _̵͕̺̫ͅ_** ** _̣_** ** _̰_** ** _h_** ** _̨̢̡͈̤̲͔̩̙̦͈͙͜_** ** _o_** ** _̷̴_** ** _̳_** ** _̜͖̟̯̞͎͔̹̻̙_** ** _m_** ** _̛̠͓͕̤̙͙̪̩̫̖̠̕͠_** ** _e_** ** _͞͏̮͖_** ** _̣_** ** _̫̜̫̘_** ** _̗_**

 

 

Undyne hates Snowdin.

She hates the cold, she hates the snow, she hates the way her armour turns _freezing_ , and the way her teeth chatters, and ugh, why's she here again?

Because of Papyrus.

She sighs, crunches her way through town— she'd asked some random town person where she could find Sans, and they'd told her that he's usually at Grillby's by now.

So here she is, in full armour, making her way to Grillby's.

She hasn't been to Grillby's before— Papyrus' complained about it numerous times, though always in a way that made it obvious he didn't really _hate_ it.

But she's seen it before, when passing through to those boneheads' stations— it doesn't look to shabby, and it's probably _a lot_ warmer than outside, which sounds just _perfect_ right now.

Furiously biting down a sneeze, Undyne picks up her pace just a bit— no way is she going to waste time _outside_ , in the cold, when there's a perfectly fine warm place waiting for her.

The inside of Grillby's turns out to be as warm as she had hoped— not overly hot, just pleasantly warm.

It has a kind of homely feel to it, or maybe just a lived-in one— there's two couches paired up with tables on the right side, a big table and a smaller one at the left, and a counter with some high chairs at the end. And, wow, a jukebox!

Okay, no, now isn't the time for jukeboxes— maybe she'll check it out _after_ talking to Sans. Maybe if it's cool enough, she'd drag Alphys—

No, focus!

Mentally giving herself a shake, Undyne zones in on the skeleton sitting at the counter.

She walks towards him, steps focused and measured; ignores the way the whole room has gone quiet, and the way everybody is staring at her.

The monster behind the bar, presumably Grillby, looks at her calmly, and sits aside the glass he's been polishing.

He doesn't ask her if she wants anything.

"Sans."

The skeleton jerks in surprise, twisting around to look at her— he stares at her confusedly, though the grin doesn't leave his face.

"oh. undyne, hey."

She ignores the urge to roll her eyes. "I gotta talk to you."

Sans laughs tiredly, turns around in his chair. "straight to the point, huh?" he relaxes against the counter, elbows on the bar. "alright, lay it on me."

She raises her eyebrows, looks around the room— even though everybody's gone back to whatever they were doing before she arrived, it's kind of obvious they're listening in.

She looks back at him, deadpan.

"Shouldn't we take this _elsewhere_."

It's not a question.

Sans blinks. Looks around the room. Shrugs. "eh, i don't mind."

Undyne grits her teeth, crosses her arms. "It's about _Papyrus_."

Instantly, the relaxed attitude is gone— he sits up straight, grin straining into an almost frown.

"i know a place," he says, slides down the chair and beelines for the door.

Undyne rolls her eyes, and turns to follow him out. The jukebox can wait.

 

The place turns out to simply be the edge, by the rock formation that Papyrus' painted over to look like a bridge. Sans turns to her, hands in his pockets, and looks at her expectantly, face not particularly happy.

"what is it you wanted to talk about?" he asks, voice sharp.

Undyne crosses her arms, curls her fingers against her chest-plate. She can't help the glare on her face.

" _Papyrus_ ," she bites out, even though she _knows_ Sans hasn't forgotten.

Sans doesn't react, just looks at her, waiting.

Undyne itches her one shoulder up. "Ugh, you can't tell me you haven't noticed."

Sans reacts then. Grin turning sharper, and he's almost glaring; Undyne grits her teeth.

She's not here to aggravate Sans.

"Something's wrong with Papyrus," she says, before Sans can snap at her. "And you gotta fix it."

"i don't know what you think is up," Sans says, shrugging one shoulder. His grin is relaxed again. "but pap told me he's having problems sleeping, and i can't fix that."

Undyne stares. "Sleeping—" she shakes her head. " _Sleeping_ problems, really Sans? You actually _believed_ that?"

Sans' grin drops completely.

Undyne barrels on: "I don't know what's up, because he won't _tell me_. But something _is up_ , and he won't talk to me about it, because apparently, it involves something he can only talk to **you** about!"

Undyne's never been the best at reading Sans' expression— she's better than the average person, but that's only cause she's so used to reading Papyrus'. But even she can tell that Sans is caught off guard, completely wrong-footed.

He's looking at her like he's not quite sure he heard her right.

"... only with me?"

He breathes the word out, like somebody's punched him in the gut.

Undyne remembers, starkly, what Papyrus had said: that it'd _crush_ Sans. And then she remembers the way Papyrus has been looking, lately, and she doesn't care.

"Yeah," she looks away from him. "And I'm guessing you have an idea what he's talking about."

Sans swallows; he's pushing down his coat, the fabric straining against his shoulders and neck. He looks down in the snow.

"i— yeah. shit."

He inhales shakily, then exhales just as shakily.

"fuck. i— i gotta talk to him."

Tension she wasn't even fully aware of bleeds away, and her shoulders slump; she rubs one hand across her blind eye.

"Good. I'm— really worried Sans."

Sans' breath repeats shakily into the air, and when she looks back at him, he's looking at nothing, expression somewhere between lost and closed off.

"... yeah."

 

 

Sans finds Papyrus still on the couch, sitting in almost exactly same spot as he'd sat in when Sans left for Grillby's over an hour ago.

The TV is still going, one of Mettaton's show, but Papyrus isn't watching it— he's gazing blankly at the screen, obviously seeing nothing at all.

He's not even noticed Sans is back.

Pushing his hands into his coat-pockets, Sans watches his brother— _really_ looks at him.

Papyrus is sitting stiffly, like simply sitting is painful. His gaze is unfocused, and from time to time, his face twitches, pain and dread crossing his face.

_i'm an idiot_ , Sans thinks, dimly, and curls his fingers against his palm.

He breathes in, slow and steady— clears his throat.

Papyrus doesn't jump. He blinks, twice in quick succession, and turns his head to look at Sans.

"... SANS?"

He furrows his eye sockets. "WHY'RE YOU HOME NOW?"

"we gotta talk."

Papyrus face twitches— surprise, then suspicion. Then nothing except a small smile.

"SURE! WHAT ABOUT?"

Sans leans back on his heels, uncurls his hands. Curls them together again.

"what's wrong?"

Papyrus' smile dips, then shifts into a puzzled half-smile. "YOU'VE ALREADY ASKED ME THIS, SANS."

Sans shrugs. "yeah, but you lied."

Papyrus smile collapses completely then. His eyes shifts, focuses on something over Sans' shoulders, then back at his face.

"I DIDN'T."

Sans bites down the urge to scoff. Instead he keeps his face as impassive as he can, shifting forward, then back, on his feet. "you told undyne you could only talk to _me_ about it."

He's watching Papyrus face as closely as he can, and that's probably the only reason he sees the shift on his brother's face.

Surprise, hurt, betrayal— eyes shifting back to look at _something_ over Sans' shoulder. A touch of almost-fear, determination.

And then there's nothing, and Papyrus is looking him straight in the eye.

"I WON'T TELL YOU."

Straight to the point, then.

Sans hunches his shoulders up, an itch to pace gnawing at the back of his skull. "so something _is_ wrong."

Papyrus shrugs, eyes going back to the TV.

" _don't_ ignore me," Sans snaps, sharp and sudden, and Papyrus looks back over at him.

"damn it pap, i can't _help_ if you won't tell me."

Papyrus clicks his teeth— once, twice. Focuses on the spot over Sans' shoulder again.

"YOU CAN'T HELP," he says. "AND I'M NOT GOING TO _TELL_ YOU."

"why not?!" Sans asks, steps forward— his hands are out of his pockets, a sharp gesture he doesn't mean to do. "i'm your _brother_!"

Papyrus winces; rubs one palm across his left humerus. "I'm not telling you," he repeats. "So just leave it."

Sans huffs. Clenches his hands. "and _why not_?" he asks, again.

Papyrus curls his fingers into the shirt over his humerus, clicking his teeth nervously. He's not looking at Sans. Just at the spot over his shoulder.

" **why not**!"

Papyrus eyes snaps back to him, and Sans can't, for the life of him, read the emotion there.

For a second, it is almost like Papyrus will tell him. For a second, it is _almost_ like it'll be okay.

And then Papyrus looks away, and Sans throws his hands up, spins around on his heel, and shortcuts directly to Grillby's.

 

 

There's no slam of a door. Just a sudden silence, and Papyrus exhales softly.

He had almost, _almost_ , told Sans.

He looks back over to the shadow. It's on the wall, watching him with black, sharp eyes.

It is still grinning.

Papyrus shakes out a breath, closes his eyes— hides his face behind his hands.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" he asks, voice strained.

The shadow's voice is still a hiss, a mangled noise of different tones. But it is understandable, these days.

**_home_** , it says, as it always does. **_hOme_**

Papyrus laughs. He doesn't know why, but it's all he manages to do.

"YOU CAN'T _GO HOME_ , DAD."

His voice shakes at every word, and he wipes at his face. His arms hurt, painful pings that's been bothering him every since that night—

Bones splintering, breath in his throat.

He remembers waking up, nearly screaming, and finding fractures in his arms— humerus, ulna, radius. Too many to count.

"YOU DON'T _EXIST_ ANYMORE."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey look an update!!  
> i feel like i should say this, so i will: i'm kiiinda losing steam on this, which i really should have expected- it was veeery much a spur of the moment thing, which means i had zero of it planned out. or well, it means i planned it out over two days, then wrote the first chapter and posted it, haha.  
> but, don't worry! i am finishing it, obviously.  
> also, there's only two chapters left: would you guys prefer me to merge them, so you have a longer chapter, or not do that, and give you two, shorter chapters?
> 
> anyho: i hope this chapter is okay!! i'm not really 'satisfied' with it, but that's bc i just wanna get it over with, haha. next time, i'm sticking to ideas i've had for _more_ than two days.


	5. Chapter 5

It is dark.

It always is.

Papyrus isn't surprised to find himself standing in the dark, endless void— he hadn't expected anything else, not after their little 'talk'.

He flexes his hands— even in this not-dream, the pain remains. Sharp stings of broken, fractured, bone. His soul aches.

He looks down; the stretch of colour has gradually been fading with time. Dulling to a matte shade, grey bleeding into the smear. His feet doesn't stick to it, anymore.

He doesn't bother trying to walk anywhere.

**_hOme_ **

Papyrus looks back up.

Gaster stands at the end of the smear, grin as wide as ever— the cracks in his skull shimmer with darkness, and his voice hisses and glitches, like an old video tape corrupted by age.

**_i want hOme_ **

There's an edge to dad's voice tonight; hurried and fevered, and _begging_ — Papyrus doesn't feel anything at it, even though he probably should.

Gaster comes closer— he doesn't walk, simply just appears before Papyrus. His hands reach out, but doesn't touch.

**_fOrgive me_ **

Papyrus doesn't bother trying to speak.

He shakes his head, curls his arms around himself— the cracks sting with pain, and his soul _aches_.

Gaster whines— a low glitchy sound, and it is almost like he is melting. Despair sits in his voice.

**_has tO!_ **

Papyrus shakes his head again.

The sound Gaster makes, then, is a high-pitched cry of _something_ — anger, frustration. Papyrus isn't sure.

**_sOrry!_ **

Hands clamp around his soul, and Papyrus gasps in pain, surprise— he tries to stumble away, but can't.

His father's strength holds him still, and the fingers squeeze.

**_lOve yOU_ **

Papyrus tries to swallow another gasp, to ignore the pain. He raises both hands, fingers clasping around something sticky and gooey.

_No you don't_ , he wants to say. It burns in his mind, behind his teeth. _You don't_.

His eyes sting.

Gaster is still smiling.

**_let gO_** , he says, a hissed, spat out mess of words— it feels like tape being ripped off the inside of Papyrus' skull.

Fingers squeeze. Crush.

Papyrus' vision pitches to the side, and his mouth moves in a soundless cry.

His soul cracks beneath the pressure, but Gaster doesn't let go.

**_let me in_ **

Pain. Pressure.

Papyrus cries out, legs giving out beneath him— magic flares weakly inside him, and he tries to rip Gaster's hands away, but it is like he has no limbs anymore.

Like he's just a soul, struggling in Gaster's grasps.

_Let me go_ , he wants to cry. _Let me go, please, dad._

The pressure continues, and his soul continues to give— crack after crack, like glass breaking against stone.

_Please, dad_ —

Gaster is still smiling.

_—please, dad, don't, it hurts, it hurts, it hu **rts**_ —

His soul _breaks_

 

 

Papyrus is screaming.

Sans jolts awake in a soulbeat, scrambles off his mattress as quickly as he can— he doesn't bother with the door, simply shortcuts directly to Papyrus' bedroom.

He can't remember the last time Papyrus _screamed_.

Papyrus' room is aglow with bright, blue lights, and Sans stumbles, knees whacking against the end of the bed.

His breath sticks to the roof of his mouth, and his own magic is burning, flickering out of his socket.

" **papy** —"

Blood.

Rivers of it, soaked into the bed sheets; Papyrus is crumbled up against the wall, hands weakly pressed to his sternum— his eyes are open, and burning with magic, tears running down his face.

Sans voice is gone.

Papyrus' chest struggles to rise, and Sans can see his soul— cracked and flickering, and nausea sweeps through him.

"oh god, _papyrus_ —!"

He stumbles forward, pushes himself out of the way of the bed, so he doesn't kneecap himself.

Papyrus' eyes follow him— they're wide with panic and fear and _hurt_ , and Sans doesn't know what to _do_.

"pap, i don't—" he leans in, rests most of his weight against the bed— he's by Papyrus' side, is so close he can see the fractures and cracks all over his brother's bones. Deep and wretched, and blood mixes with dust.

"what do i do?!"

Papyrus whines, wordless and pathetic, and Sans is crying, tears dripping down his cheeks and mixing in with the blood and dust, and _he is so scared_.

"M—" Papyrus' whole body wracks, and his eyes gut out. "—gccc."

"i don't—" Sans reaches out, hands hovering over his brother's mangled ribcage. His magic is pushing beneath his bones, wild and scared and his shoulders are shaking.

_magic_.

He inhales shakily, closes his eyes— focuses on his magic, flickering wildly, and _controls it_.

"okay. okay, pap, i'm gonna— i'm gonna give you my magic, okay?"

He opens his eyes again, looks at Papyrus— his brother nods sharply, pain clear on his face, and Sans drops his hands down.

Papyrus' face spasms with pain, and another scream drags its way out of him— Sans flinches, but keeps his fingers wrapped around Papyrus' ribs.

His brother's soul is centimeters away from his hand, and this is the easiest way.

Sans leans forward, rests his forehead against the back of his hand— he can feel his brother's soul struggling, can feel his brother's magic flickering like a candle in the wind.

He closes his eyes tight.

"please be okay," he says, soft and quiet, and he's still crying. "please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is complete shit but WHO CARES IT'S AN UPDATE  
> next chapter is THE LAST and i can finally put this piece of crap to rest.
> 
> also: SUPER HUGE THANKS TO _EVERYONE_ for commenting and kudos'ing and just???? thank you so much ;___; u guys are the only reason i'm even finishing this dumb thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO'S PREPARED TO BE DISAPPOINTED!!

"SANS?"

Sans wakes slowly.

His head feels heavy, his thoughts muddy— he feels tired, like he's been awake for days on straight.

"SANS."

A voice. Hoarse and rough, tinged with exasperation— it's familiar, so familiar, and...

Sans jerks his head up, pain flaring through his skull— but it doesn't matter, because staring back at him is _Papyrus_.

"pap!" his own voice is rough, scratchy and painful. He doesn't care. "you're—" his breath hitches, sticks. His eyes sting. "you're okay."

It's not quite accurate— Papyrus looks _awful_ , looks weak and frail. His breath wheezes, and pain keeps on flickering across his face. But he's _alive_.

"god," Sans breathes, leans in— he raises one shaky hand, and presses it to his brother's face. "i thought—"

There's blood on his fingertips.

He recoils, tugs his hands to his chest— his ribs stinging, his soul twists. Tears drip down his face again, and _god_.

"SANS?"

Papyrus' voice is concerned, worried— Sans looks back up at him, and his face is open and vulnerable, and he _almost died_.

"who did this to you," Sans says, and his voice is flat and emotionless, and he's still crying, but he can't even feel it.

Papyrus' face flickers— the openness on his face is gone, and Sans' magic, weak as it is, _roars_.

" **don't**!"

He doesn't have to strength to get up, to pace and _yell and burn_ — so he sits there, bloodied hands tugged against his chest, socket flickering blue lights all over his face.

His chest burns.

"you almost died."

Papyrus looks away.

"you almost _died_ , and you can't— you _have to tell me_. papyrus, you— you have to."

Papyrus clicks his teeth together, rattles uneasily. His breath wheezes, sad and low, and Sans curls his hands together so he doesn't reach out.

He's so _tired_.

"Okay," Papyrus' voice is soft and weak and nothing like itself. "But—"

He looks back at Sans, and he's not-quite smiling. "Can we go somewhere else?"

Sans exhales. Relaxes, anger fading and relief settling in his chest. He nods.

"yeah, sure, just—" he pushes himself up, stumbles a bit. "—let me go wash my hands."

He smiles tiredly, stumbles another step back. Papyrus watches him go, the not-quite smile still on his face.

Right now, Sans can't be bothered to deal with that.

He trips out of Papyrus' bedroom, stumbles down the stairs— his hands are shaking violently, and nausea sits in his mouth, strong and acidic.

Papyrus almost _died_.

He drops down on the couch, breath wheezing, and he leans forward, presses his forehead to his wrists— his hands shake and shake and shake, and he can't stop.

A sob wrenches its way out, and he presses his wrist to his mouth, tries to stifle the sound of it.

Papyrus had _almost died_.

Papyrus had almost _left him_ — just like Gaster had, and that thought rips another sob out of him, and then he's bawling, whole body shaking with it.

He couldn't handle that.

He can't lose Papyrus too.

 

 

They end up on the couch.

Papyrus at one end, Sans at the other, and the silence is heavy and uncomfortable— Papyrus can't stop picking at the blanket Sans' thrown around his shoulder, and he can't look his brother in the sockets.

He's not sure how to start.

He's not sure he _can_.

He's so afraid.

"pap."

Sans' voice is tired and empty, and Papyrus bites down the urge to flinch, pulling harder at the blanket. It's scratchy and woolly, and his eyes stings and he can't breathe right, and he—

He inhales shakily.

"D-don't interrupt me," he says, and his voice wavers. "okay?"

He looks up, just long enough to see Sans' nod his head; then he looks back down again, focuses on nothing.

"It started... six days ago, I think."

He turns the blanket between his fingers, rubs at it. He's dimly aware that he's shaking.

"I had a dream."

He looks up, not quite sure why. Meets Sans' sockets.

His mouth tastes like dust.

"Except it wasn't a dream, Sans."

He can still remember that pain— sudden and bright, fuelled by fear and shock.

"Somebody was there. An, uh, shadow—" he doesn't want to say it. "and h-it, it tried to..."

He presses his teeth together, looks away. His breathing is too loud.

"I don't know," he says. "I don't know what he wanted, I don't know why he did this, I don't—!"

His voice breaks, and pain blooms behind his teeth, and he's crying, suddenly and unexpectedly.

"Sans—" he looks back at his brother, and he can't stop the words. "It was _Dad_."

A breath.

A moment.

Sans looking back at him, and—

"no."

Voice flat. Sans is smiling, an unconscious expression he doesn't mean. His eyes are bright.

"pap, that's not— that's not _funny_."

Papyrus swallows.

"It's not a—"

Sans cuts him off with a sharp gesture, with a sudden snap of teeth. "that's not **funny**!" he shouts, and if he weren't so exhausted, he'd be standing.

"dad would _never_ —" there's something furious in Sans' voice, and Papyrus' ducks his head, tugs the blanket closer. " _never_ do something like that!"

Silence falls back over them.

Papyrus doesn't dare look up, doesn't even dare move— he keeps his teeth together and stares down at his knee, focuses on the pain still thrumming through him.

And then, softly, Sans sighs.

"i'm sorry," his voice isn't angry anymore— just tired and defeated. "i just— dad wouldn't do something like that."

Papyrus doesn't look up.

"pap, i'm— i'm serious. dad _loved_ us. he'd never hurt either of us."

There's a quick scuffling sound, and suddenly Sans is there, carefully placing his hands on Papyrus' shoulder.

"whoever did this, they'll pay, okay? but it wasn't dad."

Sans' voice is so sure.

Papyrus looks back up, smiles as best as he can. It feels odd on his face.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

He's not sure if he means it.

Sans smiles, and it's not quite right. "okay."

 

 

It didn't work.

The Void is dark and deep and quiet, and Gaster watches the grey smear before him, not quite feeling anything.

The sliver's closed.

The link is gone.

It _hadn't worked_.

He had tried— he had tried _so hard_ , and it had been a _waste_.

He's still stuck.

... He had hurt his son for _nothing_.

Emotions rise at that thought, and Gaster hates the taste of them— regret, self-loathing, disappointment. Guilt.

He had failed.

He had failed to take his son's soul, he had failed to merge their two souls together. He had failed, he had _failed_.

In the darkness of the Void, Gaster starts to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that is all, folks!  
> this is actually exactly how i planned to end it, from the very start- this story was, really, a spur of the moment. a short story. my attempt at _actually finishing something_.  
>  and hey, i did!! it may not be the Best Thing Ever, but i did it!
> 
> to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, kudos', read it: thank you.  
> thank you so, so much.


End file.
